


Smoke

by TeamAlphaQ



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Friends to whatever complicated bullshit these two have come up with today, I like it when Izaya is sad, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamAlphaQ/pseuds/TeamAlphaQ
Summary: It's always the same dream.The same room, the same four walls, the same smoke choking him.If Izaya knew why he was being forced to suffer every time he closed his eyes, maybe he would have done something about it. But then again, maybe he wouldn't have had the courage.
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya
Comments: 30
Kudos: 78





	1. In A Smoke Filled Room

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for twoish years??
> 
> Idk, I needed a reprieve from soulmates and panicked Izaya so instead I went and edited sleep deprived and depressed Izaya!
> 
> The range of things I write... sometimes it amazes even me.
> 
> Enjoy~

There’s a room. It’s small, just four walls, painted white, so white that even paper looks dirty by comparison. Every step you take echoes because the room is so small and it’s almost disturbing, how close together everything is. Or it would be if there was anything in the room.

Well, there is something in the room. The whole room is full of smoke. It’s billowing and it’s cloudy and it looks grey compared to the bright white walls. You’d think it would stain the walls but it doesn’t, it just swirls about and thickens and obscures what little there is to see.

It smells like cigarettes and nicotine. He’s looked, but no one in the room is smoking. There’s no explanation for the smoke, it’s just always there. So thick and lulling and muffling, making even the echoes seem distant. And the room is so small that you can’t escape, you only look around and see the same thing, more and more smoke.

He’s always in this room, breathing in the smoke, slowly suffocating, slowly choking the life out of him but he can’t fight it. There’s no fight left in him. Here in this room, he feels so alone and tired, like whatever was left of him has been left behind, stands outside those four walls where he can’t reach it.

You’d think that he’d fight it, you’d think that it would make him panic but it just makes him feel like he’s losing his mind. He’s forgotten how to open his eyes, but he’s forgotten how to close them as well. All he can do is stand and let the smoke fill him and consume him and become him. It’s the only thing that’s left.

But now there’s a man. Where he came from is anyone’s guess. The man is unfamiliar and yet he looks so sad, so tired. Disappointed with him, but it’s more than that. There’s regret and there’s remorse but there’s also hatred and bitterness in those old, ocher eyes. Even if he wanted to speak to the old man, the smoke would have robbed him of his voice. He has nothing to say though, nothing that will justify what he’s done.

Why this old man out of all of them though, he doesn’t know that either. Because he’s never met this man and yet he knows who it is as clearly as if he’d been told. The old man just stands there, making no move to do anything, and yet it’s suffocating, like the smoke that fills the room. The man is not smoking, he’s not troubled by the thick plumes moving through the small room, but it’s troubling, yes it’s oh so troubling.

But there’s no escape from the room. There are just three doors in the walls, each of them white but for their silver handles that match the gray smoke of the room. Always, it’s those same three doors. No markers to show where they go or what might be beyond them, just three doors that are all locked from the outside.

He’s tried to open them, but there aren’t any keys. There are never any keys. Just three doors and no keys and thick, cigarette smoke that rises up to suffocate and choke him. He can’t talk, he can’t even scream, he just breathes in and lets the helplessness overwhelm him, lets it drive him mad.

When Izaya wakes up, his whole body is bathed in sweat and his mouth is open in a scream, but no sound comes out. 

His throat hurts too much to speak.

~o~

“You’re losing your mind.” She keeps on saying that, Namie seems adamant to get Izaya to believe her. It’s so funny because she’s always said that, always with those thin cruel lips that let nothing but lies and anger pass them. And yet this time she might really mean it because she looks like she’s losing her mind as well. “I can’t keep up with you Izaya, you need to stop this. You’re going to drive yourself into the ground.”

“I’m not going crazy,” he can hear himself saying, his voice ever unchanged. Tapping his long thin fingers against the surface of his desk, Izaya wonders if maybe she has a point, maybe he is going crazy. Not that he’d ever admit it because everyone knows an informant can’t go around showing weakness if he wants to live. At the present moment, Izaya thinks he wants to live, but he’s not sure anymore. “I’m fine Namie-san, if anything I’d worry about yourself. You’ve always had a history of mental instability after all.”

She scoffs but there’s worry in her dark eyes, not something Izaya sees often. Part of him wants to latch onto it and mock it but he can’t make his mouth work right. It’s been on autopilot for months. The walls around him keep bending in his vision and he knows it’s from lack of sleep but that doesn’t stop them from turning white, that doesn’t stop the air from thickening.

“If you can’t sort this out, I’m not dealing with it anymore,” Namie warns, though how serious she is Izaya doesn’t know. He used to be able to read her, why can’t he read her anymore? There’s something wrong with his mind, there’s something wrong with him. _No, there’s nothing wrong, I’m fine, I’m just tired, that’s all._ “You’re becoming unbearable.”

“Just give me the paperwork, Akabayashi-san doesn't like unnecessary delays, you know that as well as I do,” Izaya hums, his breath coming out in a puff of air. He feels like he should be conserving it because who knows when it’s all going to turn to smoke and he won’t be able to breathe. Yet he holds out his hand and takes the papers Namie hands to him, all of his movements muscle memory He is losing his mind, but no one is going to be able to help him.

Taking a deep breath, he scans through the words, committing them to memory as best he can, because he doesn’t have enough energy to read the thing twice. A face keeps appearing before his eyes but he doesn’t know who the old man is so he banishes it because he’s so sick of thinking about it. His whole body feels calm, but Izaya’s tired of the calm, he wants something to happen. He wants something to affect him and make things change.

He can’t remember the last time things changed. All Izaya remembers is how things are getting worse. _I used to be better at this, what’s wrong with me?_ Pulling himself together, Izaya hums under his breath, recalling names and places as they appear in the document. He needs to go to Ikebukuro for this job, there’s an old contact he should probably get in touch with, just to make things run as smoothly as possible.

“Do you think Yiasi-san still lives under that department store?” Izaya asks absently, struggling to get the smoke out of his head. It feels like it’s replaced his brain. All his organs have become nothing but thick, gray smoke filled with nicotine and inescapable dreams. “Or should I leave him out of this, he did after all get caught up in that Chinese money laundering scheme last year.”

Namie doesn’t answer, but then, she never does when he starts to talk like this, in a way that doesn’t ask for an answer. He’s thinking out loud, a habit he falls in and out of as the years go by. Maybe he needs to do something else, but Izaya feels like he has to keep working, otherwise he’ll end up caught in his dreams again.

“It’s not a difficult job,” Izaya muses, his carmine eyes shifting over his office, never staying in one place long enough for his mind to start playing tricks on him. _That’s all they are,_ he tells himself, even though everything looks blurry, like he’s looking at it through a haze. _Just illusions, just tricks your mind is playing on you._ “Maybe I should just do it on my own, it would be more interesting that way, less of a chance of error.”

“Usually you’d just delegate a job like this to someone else,” Namie says, her tone clipped, well aware that she’s interrupting where she’s not wanted. Izaya’s gaze fixes on her and she’s already glaring his way, her eyes narrowed and steady, unlike his own. “You’re doing a lot of unnecessarily menial tasks Izaya.” _It’s not like you,_ is what Izaya hears under her words. _It’s not like you and I don’t like it, I’m worried._

Twirling a finger, Izaya lets out a soft ripple of laughter. “Namie-san, are you worried about me getting my hands dirty? How amusingly mundane of you! Perhaps I really _should_ be worried about you losing your mind, you seem to be on a path towards it.” Namie doesn’t find it funny, but then, neither does Izaya, because he doesn’t like being told that he’s losing his mind. He’s been acting fine, she’s just worrying over nothing.

“You know what I think you should do,” she suddenly says, her tone unexpectedly blunt. “I think you should go out and find Heiwajima-san.” 

Izaya’s vision snaps into focus for the first time all night at those words. He’s not even certain he heard her right but that name brings him out of his daze. Who knows why, certainly not Izaya. He hates Shizuo, right? He’s not sure, he’s having trouble feeling anything anymore.

“Namie-san~” he trills, his eyes narrowing as he stares at his secretary. He doesn’t like her stubborn glare and her absolute air that she has about her. “Why ever would I go out and actively seek Shizu-chan? We are enemies, ne? It would be altogether too strange for me to go and _find_ him, besides, usually he finds me.” That sounds right, he can’t argue with his own words. They make a moderate amount of sense, surely Namie agrees with him. Shizuo and him hate each other.

“Bullshit, you always used to go and find him,” Namie spits right back. She’s angry, he doesn’t understand why though. Usually he’d be able to reason out the emotions of his precious humans but it’s like there’s a blanket over his head and he’s a lost sheep being lead around by forces outside of his control. “Izaya, this isn’t normal for you, usually you’re out every few days to terrorize him.”

“You certainly don’t make a good argument for me to continue doing so,” the Raven hums, twirling a finger, wishing he could remember how to enjoy conversations such as these.

He _knows_ he’s being logical, but Namie wants none of it. Tilting her chin up, the woman says deliberately, “You’re _insufferable_ when you go too long without seeing him.”

“So?”

An exasperated grunt. “So go and find him.”

“My life doesn’t revolve around Shizu-chan,” Izaya tells her, his voice dangerously low. He doesn’t like what she’s saying and he’s tired of listening to her say it. “I’d rather you not tell me who I should and should not spend time around Namie-san, he’s my enemy, I see no reason to go and seek him out for any reason, least of all your foolish worries.”

Namie looks like she’s going to fight him further, but then she purses her lips together and says, “Fine.” Then it’s back to her paperwork and it’s like Izaya no longer exists. But for Izaya, he can’t stop thinking about Shizuo and he can’t even wish it would stop because his mind is in shambles. It’s all smoke, it’s all white walls. It’s all a name and a memory of a spark that he’d forgotten existed at all.

Turning back to his own papers, Izaya decides that he’s not going to Ikebukuro today.

~o~

The room is so small, sometimes Izaya wonders if it’s shrinking. It can’t be shrinking though, they wouldn’t do that to him. Whoever they is, whoever has put him in this small white room with its gray smoke that kills him ever so slowly. He doesn’t know and he can’t make himself care because the atmosphere is choking the questions out of him.

There has always been light in the room but he doesn’t know where it’s coming from. There’s no discernible lights in the ceiling, there’s nothing set into the walls. If anything the blinding whiteness of the room is what’s lighting it. Maybe someone let a spark go in there and it’s just reflecting back eternally.

There are still three doors, Izaya goes to each but doesn’t even bother trying to open them because he knows they’re locked. If there are keys, he doesn’t have them. If there were keys, he sees no way to use them to unlock the smooth white doors. His feet tap on the floor and he can hear them. 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Turning around again, he sees something in the smoke. A white table, ornately carved. It looks like a side table you’d find in an expensive house, antique and hand made. It’s got a glass top, the piece fits perfectly with the wood. Izaya can only stare at it for a moment because he’s lost any idea of what it could mean. It’s a table, and the room is white, and the air is smoke and the walls keep getting closer. What more is there to understand?

Yet when he moves closer, he sees the frame sitting on the table. He can’t understand it, but he’s able to see it so he reaches for it. It’s an old frame, but it’s smooth and he doesn’t know if it’s wood or some other material. Slowly turning it over, Izaya forgets what one does with a picture frame until its third revolution in his palms.

Because it’s then that he sees it. The portrait painted into the picture that sits in the frame. It’s in black and white but why would one need color when he’d know that black vest and bowtie anywhere. Each crease in the white shirt that looks dirty compared to the walls of the room is so detailed, Izaya wonders if it’s real. But he can’t touch it, it’s behind cold glass.

Even though he knows every detail, knows those calloused hands and that messy hair, the face is nothing but a blur. He struggles to put together what belongs in that space, but all he sees is the rest of the picture and the frame which grows heavy in his hands. For the first time in this room he feels panic because why can’t he remember what goes there. Why can’t he see the face of the man who used to cause him so much strife?

Why does he need to see those features so desperately?

Dropping the picture, he stumbles, back, falling to the floor. The light is blinding and the walls seem to shrink and he can’t breathe but he’s not worried about that, he’s just worried about the fact that he can’t remember Shizuo’s face anymore. And he knows he should but he can’t and he doesn’t know why it’s so important that he does. Maybe this is a sign that a certain part of his life is now over.

But as he suffocates once more, Izaya knows that all he wants is to see Shizuo. Even if it’s the last conscious thing he does before he fully goes on autopilot and his consciousness ceases to exist entirely. He doesn’t know why anymore, too much has been lost to those four white walls, but Izaya knows that he has to.

He wakes up, bathed in sweat, chilled to his bones and still sitting at his desk. The room is dark, evening having fallen long ago. Glancing at the papers scattered in front of him, the Raven struggles to see them, but everything blurs. It’s a fruitless endeavor, so eventually he gets up and walks towards the stairs. He doesn’t question where the day went or how he came to be asleep on his desk, but then, he doesn’t question anything anymore.

But tomorrow, tomorrow he’ll see Shizuo. Then something will be okay, whatever that thing that’s wrong is. At least he thinks he’ll be fine.

He doesn’t remember anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jazz hands*
> 
> Alright alright, for real this time. Back to writing The Trouble With Soulmates. I'm like... 4000 words away from done ;;^^


	2. Face Down On The Pavement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short! Sue me. I wanted to write something little to give myself a break from the heavier stories I'm writing.
> 
> Still, I'm having a decent time. It's a fun little story.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Izaya next regains some semblance of consciousness, awareness of where and when he is, he’s standing on a rooftop, looking out over a street in Ikebukuro that’s like all the others. For a moment, he just stands there, blankly, letting sights and sounds filter in through his mind. Breeze blows through his hair faintly, and the humans below him are making as much noise as they always do, but it all comes out muffled, like there’s a barrier between himself and the real world.

If his sleeping world wasn’t so consistent, he might have believed that this was a dream as well.

This is the first time he’s lost time so noticeably. It’s frightening, he’s used to being in complete control of his own body. If this was going to become a problem, then he needed to talk to someone. But what exactly would he say that didn’t sound crazy.

Pulling in a breath, Izaya glances down at his palm, at the switchblade hanging casually from his fingers. He doesn’t remember pulling it out, just like he can’t recall boarding the subway that morning to go to Ikebukuro. Why he did either is anyone’s guess, because personally, he’s out of ideas.

There must be a reason, Izaya thinks, as chrome gleams in the light.  _ I am not illogical. _

Illogical? Maybe not. But he certainly isn’t completely in control anymore. Most days, it’s like sitting back in a theater and watching someone else go through the motions of a normal day. The only times it feels real are when the walls are closing in, and smoke is filling the room.

Absently, he gives the scene before him another sweep with his eyes, before sliding the knife in his hands back into a pocket.

This, he realizes, is the first time he’s been in Ikebukuro in a month and change. Actually, he can’t remember the last time he walked these streets, though whether that’s because of time or something else, he can’t tell. Probably, it’s the dreams.  _ Everything _ seems to be tied to those white walls and brightly glowing light.

When his eyes unfocus, Izaya thinks he can see his own memories drifting through the blue sky, all of the many times he’s made the trip down here. Again, he wonders why he stopped, but… if there is an answer, it eludes him.

Just like so many other things these days…

_ Why am I here today? _ No sooner has the thought occurred to Izaya than he remembers, and a smile tugs at his lips.

Shizuo, he’s here to find the beast. Because this might be the last time he is able to, and he needs to see the man, to remember his face. Then at least when the nightmares come again, when he picks up the photograph from the table, he’ll be able to see those familiar features, instead of nothing but a terrible blankness. At least it’ll be something, a memory to ground him.

Or perhaps, it won’t do anything at all. Izaya isn’t sure if he’s chasing a solution or just chasing the wind.

His vision grows hazy and he blinks it away, banishing the smoke before it has the chance to overwhelm him.

Once again, his body goes on autopilot, and he’s leaping down from the roof, gracefully landing on the pavement before straightening. If he had been asked to do that consciously, Izaya’s sure he would have fallen. Recently, his body has been slowing down, his reaction times aren’t what they once were, and if he thinks too much, it’s like he can hardly move at all.

Coming here to find Shizuo is asking for trouble.

Izaya knows this, and yet he checks the street signs before walking, his mechanical steps taking him closer to a flame he really shouldn’t touch. Mentally, he knows he’s supposed to be careful. That’s what made Shizuo interesting in the first place, the delicate balance of too close to be safe and not close enough to be fun. But at this point, he’s struggling to remember the difference.

When he finally does smell the cigarette smoke, he’s almost entirely convinced that he’s dreaming once again. It’s the only time he smells it anymore, after all.

But the scent is quickly eclipsed by the growl of a predator, primed and ready to attack.

On a dime, he spins, coat billowing as he does, mind clearing for a blessed second.

There he is. Instantly, the Raven remembers, because how could he ever truly forget Shizuo. Carefully, his eyes trace the features. Solid jaw, crooked nose, bright white teeth, bared in a snarl. Sharp, yet wild yellow eyes, obscured yet not concealed behind blue shades.

Izaya’s heart pounds in his chest, his muscles anticipating the strain he’s about to put on them before he consciously knows what’s going on. The fingers of a hand twitches, he’s left remembering why he had his switchblade out in the first place. He was preparing, as it’s wise to do in these scenarios.

Now, well, he should probably draw it once more, or risk appearing defenseless. 

“Shizu-chan.” For all the thoughts whispering through Izaya’s head, his voice sounds natural, unhurried and unconcerned. “Funny seeing you here~”

Cigarette smoke trails from the man’s mouth, like he’s literally breathing fire. “Izaya, didn’t I tell you-”

“Not to come here?” the Raven interrupts. It’s all so natural. For the first time in a long time, Izaya knows what’s around him is real.  _ This is not a dream. _ How very reassuring. Remembering Namie’s comment, about him being  _ off _ when not around Shizuo, Izaya’s lips curl in momentary distaste, but he turns it into a smirk. “Was a month not enough time away?”

Unexpectedly, his words bring a look of confusion to Shizuo’s face. Then it’s gone and the man is advancing, pulling a crosswalk sign out of the ground as he goes. “I don’t know what bullshit you’re talking about Flea, but I haven’t seen you in three months.”

_ Oh. _

“And you know what,” Shizuo continues, a manic grin taking over his scowl, like he’s deeply delighted to see Izaya, in some terrible way. “I really liked it that way, so you better get the fuck out of my city, or I’m going to  _ throw you out!” _

As his stomach plummets, Izaya suddenly becomes very aware of where he is and what he’s doing and who is standing in front of him. Belatedly, he throws himself sideways with less than his usual grace as the street sign comes hurtling in his direction. Any and all thoughts of lost time flee him as Izaya simply loses himself to the chase and tries not to get himself killed.

Had Shizuo always been this fast? They’re tearing through the streets at breakneck speed, leaving a trail of destroyed property in their wake. Izaya remembers that, recalls the familiar burn of his legs and the rush of adrenaline that fills his blood. But he doesn’t remember Shizuo being this close, doesn’t remember the projectiles physically brushing up against him before rushing past.

Izaya knows without being told what it is. He’s slowed down. 

_ Has it been three months? _

That’s a lot of unaccounted for time. How much has he lost? It can’t be possible to lose time like that, right? There are calendars for that, constant appointments to keep.

As he thinks about it however, his stomach drops further. Though this is hardly the time to comb through his itinerary, he already knows Shizuo is right. It has been three months. There have been meetings and deals and information coming and going and maybe he hasn’t been entirely  _ there _ for all of it, but he can remember most moments if he tries.

Somehow though, the time got away from him. May had become August without any fanfare or announcement. Irrationally, he’s frustrated at the world, for letting him drift for so long.

And he’s furious with himself, for losing the ability to trust his own recollections.

But this isn’t the time to think about that. Swiftly, Izaya ducks into an alley. A no parking sign embeds itself in the wall, and his neck twists so fast it pops. Its close enough that it should have hit him. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears, and Shizuo’s shadow darkening the mouth of the alley sends a thrill of feeling through him.

It’s not fear though. Yes, it’s a lot of things, and no, Izaya isn’t at the top of his game, but for better or for worse this is the most alive he’s felt in ages.

“It looks like you’ve cornered yourself I-za-ya,” Shizuo growls.

With a leap that’s so frustratingly uncoordinated, Izaya lands on top of the no-parking sign, balancing attop it as if to prove to his weak, sleep deprived body that he’s fine, and he doesn’t need to worry. “Ah, it appears that I have~”

Shizuo isn’t daunted by this, if anything, it only encourages him to draw closer.

“What are you doing back in Ikebukuro, you louse? I thought you were gone for good.”

Letting out a breath, Izaya blinks twice and tries to focus. Shizuo’s got an unlit cigarette hanging from between his lips. There’s still anger in the lines between his eyebrows, but his body is loose, and his eyes betray the intelligence that Izaya always likes to discount.

So maybe with that in mind, it’s with too much sincerity that Izaya says, “Ah, I couldn’t stay away, Shizu-chan.”

“That isn’t a fucking answer,” the Blond grunts. His lighter flares, the stick in his mouth lights. Instantly the smoke is billowing, obscuring the man’s face for a moment.

It fills Izaya’s mind. He swears that when he blinks, he can see the white plumes drift behind his eyelids.

“What would you like me to say?” Izaya questions, inhaling deeply. If he stands here too long, those four walls are going to take him, and he’ll suffocate.

“I don’t want you to say anything, I want you to leave.”

“I thought you wanted to kill me.” Carmine eyes focus on Shizuo, on the irritation still imprinted into his features.

Smoke comes both figuratively and literally from the blond’s nostrils. “Where were you the past few months?”

Izaya wants to laugh; he can’t quite get his throat to work right. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Shizuo spits, but there’s something other than anger in his eyes. If he weren’t barely clinging to reality, Izaya wonders if he could decipher it. “You can’t just not know where you were.”

“You’d be surprised, Shizu-chan,” the Raven breathes, as the smoke fills his lungs, takes over his entire being, and overwhelms him.  _ I’m so tired. When was the last time I slept properly? _ Now wasn’t the time to remember.

“Stop dodging the question flea!” Shizuo growls, his voice a warning.

A tiny smile quirks at Izaya’s lips. “I’m not dodging anything.”

Finally, Shizuo snaps. The trashcan beside him comes off the ground easily as he hoists it over his head. “Just shut the fuck up, you piss me the hell off!”

And Izaya doesn’t dodge, couldn’t have if he wanted to.

The metal trashcan connects, throwing him off of his perch. Something sharp connects with his forehead, that’s probably going to hurt later, Izaya thinks distantly. If it doesn’t kill him.

Then he careens into the pavement, and his whole body explodes in pain.  _ Ah, that’s fun. _

Still, the moment he’s sure his legs work, Izaya’s stumbling to his feet. A quick assessment tells him his head his bleeding, badly as all head wounds do. His shoulder is sagging alarmingly, and his left wrist is in pain. The rest of him hurts as well, but he’ll figure that out later.

Among other things, his mind is blessedly clear for the moment, and he’s able to see the look on Shizuo’s face. The shock, and maybe a few other emotions he can’t seem to put his finger on.

Then he lets autopilot take over once more, and he’s escaping, leaving the beast behind. 

If he leaves a piece of his consciousness behind as well, then that’s just how these things work.

~o~

Though Izaya has no way to measure this space which he’s been confined to, he knows it’s gotten smaller because it  _ feels _ smaller. When he stands at one wall, he can see the other side, whereas before it had been obscured by smoke until he got closer. The knowledge that his prison is shrinking, coupled with the fact he can’t breathe, is worrying.

For once, the scent of the room is sharp, clear in a way it hasn’t been in a while. He knows that scent, knows it better than he knows how to exist without it. But here, confined in this room, he can’t remember what the smell is.

Or why it’s so comforting.

Sucking in a breath that’s more smoke than oxygen, Izaya turns, and examines the door at his back. For a moment, he lets this occupy his mind. The smooth door, perhaps it’s wood, perhaps it’s something else. He’s never been sure, but as he runs fingers over it, he thinks he feels it shift under him, rise up to meet his touch.

Though, that might be the light refracting through the white smoke, bending everything around him.

When he touches the door handle, it’s cold under his touch. Part of Izaya likens it to the press of a cold steel blade in his palm, ready to be used. But the thought slips away, and he doesn’t remember why the idea was significant in the first place.

His lungs expand, but the only thing they draw in is more smoke.

A distinctive spice that smells like golden hair and golden eyes and sharp, crisp uniforms.

Izaya twists the knob.

_ “Where do you think you’re going, I-za-ya?” _

As always, the door is locked. Quickly, he spins, but the only thing he finds is more white walls. His lungs depress, and he doesn’t have the strength to breathe in again.

Someday he’s going to drown in here, lose himself to the smoke and suffocate for good. Perhaps that day will come sooner than he thinks.

~o~

He wakes to the sound of a woman screaming.

“Oh my god, Izaya!”

Focusing on the voice, Izaya tries to piece what’s happening, struggles to remember where he is and what he’s doing there.  _ Who’s voice is that? _ Admittedly, he doesn’t know.

When he goes to open his eyes, Izaya quickly finds that he can’t. The blood has clotted over his eyes, his cheek is pressed into his rug. It all sticks when he tries to move, the fibers of the carpet to his cheek, the blood to his face, his lids to each other.

Every bit of his body aches.

Nothing is registering anymore.

So he just drifts. It’s better this way, maybe now that he’s dreamed, he’ll actually get some sleep… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, our poor boy, will he ever catch a break?
> 
> Hah! 
> 
> And no, the answer is no.
> 
> In other news, chapter 13 of the Trouble With Soulmates will be done in oh, a few days. I'm working very hard on it, and I can guarantee that it will be out soon~


	3. The Whole Of Him Cascades Through My Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just legit took a break this week. I am so sorry. I just zonked out there was no motivation to do anything whatsoever.
> 
> And then I wrote this chapter in less than an hour.
> 
> So like, I guess we're back in business!
> 
> Enjoy~

When he regains consciousness, the first thing Izaya makes out are the voices.

_ “-like that, I have no idea how it-” _ The voice fades into murmures he can’t quite make out.

Another voice answers, he struggles to put a name to it, but isn’t aware enough to do so. “It was probably Shizuo, unfortunately. Ara, I’d recognize his kind of damage any day.” Awkward laughter follows this statement up.

Izaya shifts slightly and groans, the sound passing from between cracked lips.

Everything smells like antiseptic. Undiluted, it hits him like a slap to the face, and he has to struggle to draw breath around the heavy chemical scent. 

Amazingly, it almost manages to mask the illusory musk of cigarette smoke that leaks from the dim walls that surround him. For a moment he tries to hone in on the spicy scent that’s swirling around him in invisible clouds, but the moment he attempts to focus, his skull explodes in pain and everything becomes antiseptic and cleanliness once more.

“Are you sure it’s nothing serious?” Though his mind is clouded, the Raven focuses on those words, needing to identify someone. The name comes to him a moment later, after the other person has already begun responding.

“Well, as non-serious as it can be. Honestly, I’d say Shizuo was almost gentle this time!” 

Namie snaps. “Kishitani-san, I’m not interested in you praising-”

“No no, of course not.”  _ So, Shinra then. I’m at Shinra’s place. _ Armed with this knowledge, Izaya struggles to ground himself. To feel the uncomfortable bed under his back, and see the plain plaster ceiling above him.

There’s a pause from outside the room.

“He’ll live, if that’s what you’re glaring at me for.”

Namie lets out a sound from the back of her throat. “I’m not worried about that. He could live through anything.”

Naturally, Shinra picks up on her tone. He’s amazingly perceptive, when he chooses to pay attention to things. “You sound worried,” he offers, as though it’s supposed to be helpful. “Trust me, I-”

“I have a puddle of blood sitting on Izaya’s floor that I need to get cleaned,” Izaya’s secretary snaps. As if this is the most important thing for her to be worrying about. Considering the alternatives, which are pestering Shinra for any sort of coherent answer and worrying about her boss, Izaya doesn’t blame Namie for worrying about his once white carpet.

_ White, just like the smoke. Just like the dreams. _

The plaster ceiling above him begins to blur, everything starts to get too bright for such a dark room.

Jerking alert once more, forcing wakefulness before he loses himself again, Izaya frustratedly rips out the IV needle and starts scrambling at the heart machine Shinra has unhelpfully connected him to. It’s useless anyway, he’s most definitely alive. There’s no need for him to be monitored. Somewhere within the depths of his exhausted mind, he’s still aware enough to be insulted by the doctor’s overreaction.

If he’s any judge, it was  _ just _ a head wound.

As he jerks his body the wrong way, his shoulder screams at him, and the heart monitor flatlines as he finally disconnects himself.

Hurried footsteps from outside the door are the only thing that herald Shinra. Izaya doesn’t even have the time to  _ pretend _ to still be sleeping. He just sits there and watches as the alarmed doctor bursts into the room only to relax at the sight of him awake and  _ alive. _

“Ah, okay,” is all he says, apparently finding all other commentary unnecessary. Izaya disagrees, but he doesn’t say as much. Instead, he simply watches as Shinra hurries over and shuts the flatlining machine off.

Silence falls once more. Just in time for Izaya to hear Namie’s high heels retreat and the front door open, then shut tight behind her. No doubt she’s uninterested in dealing with him any more than she has to.

When he tries to move once again, half of his body fails to respond to his commands. “Ow,” he mumbles, as though that small sound can contain the pain that is currently keeping him very much in the here and now.

He’s almost glad for it. But not enough that he doesn’t want it gone.

Tutting, Shinra reveals, “You broke your collarbone.”

“And,” Izaya asks blandly, eyeing the offending left shoulder as though he can will it back into wholeness.

“And you sprained your wrist.”

“And?”

Huffing, Shinra crosses his arms and plants himself before Izaya’s bed. Though the doctor is hardly the most threatening person in the world, Izaya knows that his impatience is costing him. Biting the inside of his lip, the Raven delicately checks his wrists. It’s his left one that aches, that won’t properly respond to his commands no matter how much he tries to will himself through the pain.

No wait, perhaps that has to do with the brace that’s physically restraining it and holding him still. It’s probably a blessing that it’s this wrist instead of his right one. At least he’ll have one functional arm.

At once, he relaxes and puffs out a breath.

He can breathe. For now, there is nothing to clog up his lungs.

“Did you find any… signs of a concussion?” Izaya asks tentatively, remembering what the doctor had said in the other room. How Shizuo had been almost gentle.

Remembering the fight for himself, what bits of it he was fully aware for, the man would hardly describe what had happened as gentle, but he supposes he doesn’t have another word for it, so perhaps it’s as good a one to use as any. There’s a distinct tug in his gut. Swallowing sharply, Izaya forces himself to ignore it.

After a moment of tense silence, Shinra relents. “You’re fine. It was just your average headwound… If there is such a thing. Lots of blood, probably will leave a slight scar, but nothing major.”

Gingerly, Izaya lifts his good hand up to his head and prods delicately at the bandages that cover his forehead. Shinra watches him, almost like he wants to speak, but isn’t sure what to say. At any other time, perhaps Izaya would have been able to pull the words from the air between them, but at the moment he can’t quite get a hold of it.

Tentatively, the doctor says, “I… can’t remember the last time Shizuo actually managed to hit you.”

Neither can Izaya, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he waves off the words with a dismissive, “It’s more common than you’d think.” That doesn’t exactly look good for him, but he doesn’t want Shinra questioning him too hard.

Unfortunately, his bluff is called immediately. “If that were true, you’d end up in here a lot more.”

Damn Shinra for being perceptive. Damn himself for being too tired and disconnected from reality to put up a good front. Nibbling on his bottom lip, Izaya, lets his hand fall away from his face. “I’m fine, Shinra.”  _ You don’t need to worry, _ he thinks, even though  _ he’s _ worried. Even though he desperately needs answers to all the questions that pound incessantly at the back of his skull.

When he can remember that they’re there.

“What happened, Izaya?”

Ignoring the doctor deliberately, Izaya closes his eyes, and imagines those three doors. “What’s the most common cause of lost time?”

“Lost time…” It takes Shinra a moment to catch up, but he snaps back to attention a moment later. “Izaya, are you having memory gaps?”

If only it were that simple. Remembering Shizuo’s words, how it had been three months since they’d last seen each other, Izaya forces his face to remain flat and unconcerned. They aren’t so much memory gaps as huge, gaping pits in his consciousness. Oh he remembers what happened during those periods of time, but for the life of him, he can’t recall if he had any say in what was going on at any point.

“It was just a question Shinra,” Izaya tsks, as though the topic itself is distasteful. “Psychoanalyzing me isn’t going to answer it faster.”

Pausing, Shinra pouts, and for a moment, Izaya expects him to clam up, but instead, the man lets out a clipped, “Well, not sleeping is a big cause, though there can be others.”

He doesn’t need the others. That’s Izaya’s answer right there. Tied up with a nice neat little bow as if to taunt him.  _ How does one sleep? _ The Raven wonders absently. After months of these dreams, the very concept seems foreign.

“I’ve been having nightmares.”

The words escape him before he can stop himself. Shinra’s brows instantly furrow, it’s clear his attention has become rivvited, and that makes continuing all the more difficult. Regardless, Izaya presses on ahead.

“I say nightmares… they’re just dreams.”

Already, he’s losing his nerve. Telling Shinra is useless. What does he expect the doctor to do, analyze his dreams and tell him what’s wrong? As if he’d believe the man even if he tried. Izaya begins to laugh at himself but the action makes his collarbone shift painfully, and he has to hold his breath to keep from groaning.

“How long have you had them?”

“Does it matter?” Izaya questions, his tone more biting than he’d intended.

Uncomfortably, Shinra shifts. “When was the last time you slept through the night.”

_ I don’t know. _

“Last week,” Izaya lies, though the words feel clunky and heavy on his tongue.

“Mmm.” Without speaking, Shinra makes clear his doubt. “I take it you’ve tried sleeping pills.” A nod. “Warm tea before bed?” Another nod, this one a little slower. “White noise?” Izaya doesn’t remember. It’s been a while since he bothered to frantically search for an answer to his issue. At this point, he’s accepted it as a fact of life. Yet another one in a string of terrible things that are just bound to happen because he is Izaya Orihara.

“And these night terrors-” The way Shinra puts them makes them sound like a real problem, as if he’s finally granting legitimacy to Izaya’s struggle. “-They aren’t bad, they're just  _ disturbing?” _

“I can’t breathe,” Izaya whispers, like if he utters the revelation any louder something will hear him. “I just struggle and struggle and eventually everything goes dark and I wake up.”

“I… could try prescribing you something tonight.”

“Tonight?”

Crossing his arms, Shirna puffs out his cheeks. “You aren’t leaving just yet Izaya, you’re definitely not in any condition to go walking on home. That arm is going to give you trouble for a month, and I want to keep an eye on you.”

“Why?” he asks, like a petulant child.

“To make sure you sleep,” Shinra says flatly.

With this point, Izaya finds it hard to argue. That being said, he still tries. “I already slept today, I don’t need-”

“You’re my patient-”

“-you to mother-hen me Shinra.”

“-And your secretary already paid me.”

Finally, this shuts Izaya up. Usually, he doesn’t pay Shinra. His occasional visit is repaid in information or favors, not actual currency. But if Namie decided to actually spend money on this, then it means she wants him to stay, and he’s likely to get even more trouble if he tries to sneak out and go back home.

Besides, he only has one working arm. If he goes anywhere, he’ll be an easy target. The thought should probably worry him, but he can’t quite put together the will power required to have emotions that strong.

So it’s with a soft huff of, “Fine,” that he gently lowers himself back to the bed and returns to staring at the ceiling.

“Your dreams, Izaya,” Shinra says into the silence. “Do you remember any other details of them?”

The first thing that drifts to the forefront of his mind is the voice he’d heard, slow, growling, taunting, trailing like fire down his back yet leaving ice pooled in his stomach.

“No,” he responds. His tone bears no further comment, and Shinra,  _ thankfully, _ acquiesces. True silence descends, and Izaya allows it to wrap him around him for a moment. 

Because he knows that soon, the darkness will be nothing but endless, light and blank white walls.

~o~

It doesn’t take long for this prediction to come true.

Distantly, he wonders if those doors actually lead to escape, or just to more blank rooms and more locked doors that he doesn’t understand and can’t open. Somehow, he suspects it doesn’t matter. Like everything else in here, his thoughts blur together till he can’t remember what he was trying to think about in the first place.

The table is still gone. Izaya wonders if it ever existed in the first place. It doesn’t matter though, because when he blinks, he can easily recall it. The person held within the frame, and the smoke that had caressed his fingers like the touch of another human. Something he hasn’t felt in… well, long enough for him to almost doubt that he knows what it feels like at all.

Distinctly, he conjures up the face of the man in the photo.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya breathes, even though the smoke swallows the sound.

“Izaya.”

_ Oh. _

Turning on a dime, Izaya’s eyes widen as he finds the blond man standing before him. There’s no cigarette hanging from his lips, but still smoke seems to pour from his every pore, his every orifice. Like a strange smoke machine, like a diffuser in a dusty room. It leaves him with the strange desire to cough, but when he breathes in, the spicy scent of nicotine and tobacco inundates his senses.

Like a docile creature, Izaya relaxes. Because he knows this, knows Shizuo, and isn’t afraid.

“What do you want from me?” Izaya questions, the words sounding eerily similar to something he’s said to the beast recently. 

This time however, he doesn’t get a growl in response, instead, he gets calloused fingers circling his wrist, and another strong hand flattening out over the small of his back. Suddenly, he’s far too close to breathe, if he could have in the first place.

Shizuo looms in his vision, blocking out the view of those endless white walls.

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Though the blond could have very easily made the first move, it’s Izaya who surges forward, who brushes his chapped lips against Shizuo’s mouth in the memory of intimate human interaction. Catching bleached hair in his fingers, the Raven presses himself closer, seeking warmth, seeking solidness.

Struggling desperately to find anything that isn’t insubstantial smoke and inescapable walls.

And maybe he wants this for other reasons, ones that he’s lost to time.

Then as soon as it begins, it’s over, and Izaya opens his eyes to find the man who had been holding him up cascading through his hands, turning to sand as he does so. Shizuo’s whole body crumbles, falling, pouring, settling. All Izaya can do is watch in horror as the other man dissolves.

He’s not even quick enough to grab a handful of the fine, golden grains.

Without the support he’d been unknowingly leaning into, Izaya falls to his knees as the breath escapes his lungs in a rush.

Before him, on the white floor, there’s a castle, one made of sand. Staring at it, lost and confused, Izaya valiantly tries to make sense of what he’s seeing, but he can’t. One moment, Shizuo had been before him, and the next, he was gone. 

His lips still tingle in response to their soft kiss. Like Shizuo’s still there, still pressing them together and leaving Izaya no room to wonder if what they’re doing is wrong. If he could have gone back, it would have been hungrier, would have belied the sheer desperation that coils savagely in his chest. Maybe if he can convey that feeling here, he’ll be able to feel it once again in the real world, where he isn’t contained by these walls. At this point though, Izaya’s forgetting which one is real and which one isn’t. 

Once again, he’s alone, but this time, it hurts. Loss, like a vice, crushes his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

Around him, the walls inch closer, but he can’t decide if it’s an illusion or something else.

_ “Shizuo,” _ he whispers with the last of the air in his lungs, but he can’t hear his own voice.

Three doors waver in his fading vision, but there aren’t any keys, and he’s tired of looking for them. It’s such a silly desire, but all he wants is for those strong hands holding him up to be real, because he’s far too tired to stand on his own.

All he wants is to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has SMUT. But more importantly it has emotions. Darn those things.
> 
> Can never quite get away from them.


End file.
